


Prompt: Orange

by frooit, jamnesias



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Co-Written, Jumpers, M/M, Orange, Teenagers, Twincest, musings, screwing around with prompts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-04
Updated: 2012-12-04
Packaged: 2017-11-20 06:05:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/582111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frooit/pseuds/frooit, https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamnesias/pseuds/jamnesias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ugly orange jumpers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prompt: Orange

It wasn't that he liked the colour orange, it's that Ma' didn't have time or money to buy them new clothes. This was a cousin's old jumper, with the torn sleeves and frayed threads (wasn't much orange to it, either, more like rusted metal, like washed out sunrise). The neck comes up high, uncomfortable, so he's busier wiggling his index finger down the collar to pull the fabric back (fidget) than paying attention to where he's going.

" _Hey_."

He doesn't see the curb until he's stumbled off it.

 

Difficult to say who’s distracted, really. The jumper would have been…attention diverting, originally, aye, but that’s not going to get the blame for him knowing to hook his fingers into its collar, right next to Murph’s, when he goes. Keep him up, just. It’s not divine intuition, they’re nowhere fucking near that holy. Connor was just watching. Like he watched him pull it on sideways, laying face down on his pillow, that morning. Yeah.

 

Two of them headed to the store (the only one within enough miles to walk, Mike's) for milk and this and that and Murph went right off the curb into the street and Connor's fingers are cold against his throat. He jumped, half gasped, the things you do when you're caught off guard. Connor makes this kind of muffled snort, scoff, and pulls him hard back. Jerk. The threads in the jumper creak.

"Ow."

"Yeah, wanna keep tryin' to walk there, Murph?"

"Fuck you," he's stepping back, scowling sideways, "this thing's too tight." Well. He's whining and he knows it, scuffing his shoes (boots, heels and toes) across the cement. Tugs away from his brother's reach and gives him a look. A look enough to get across his point: _you got the better one_. Connor's jumper's dark blue (wasn't a cousin's left-over, but one of Da's, and too big for Murphy--only that's how Connor put it, when really he just got to it first). _Dark_ , dark like midnight, skylight, or something equally fitting and better and Murphy's pouting, pulling at the turtleneck again, fingers twining, stretching, worrying away. They've stopped at the side of the street across from the store. Not many cars going by here, but enough. One, two, kid on a bike, three.

"Didn't even know they made jumpers puke coloured."

"Guess yer just lucky that way, Murph."

"Luck's got nothin' to do with it, thief."

" _Thief_ now..."

"Aye, ya heard me."

As a boy, and a brother, Connor has decided it's his duty to annoy the fuck out of Murph. Except for the fact that the mind wanders, and he's watching the way Murphy's hand moves and adjusts around his throat more than he should. It's written in the Bible somewhere. Murphy's a sin, isn't he. Wrapped up in swears and skinned knees, bit nails, up-turned palms, bluer than blue eyes. There's something to be said about his mouth, but he'd rather not. Just. Rather push his own sleeves up and start across, because Murphy'll always follow. Because it works both ways.

 

It wasn't that they haven't kissed before, it's that Connor can't find a good enough reason (for Murphy--Connor won't admit _he's_ shy, even about this, this, whatever, it) to do it again. Soon. He hasn't confessed it. Haven't been to church since, only because it happened three days ago, on a Tuesday. The entire scene plays back like a whispy grey memory. Spread fingers, closed curtains, pulled back blankets, bare feet. He was coming back from the bathroom, and Murph's standing in the middle of their room, said he was getting a glass of water, but never did. Connor kissed him. Might not confess it anyway, might just bite his teeth around that one and not let it go, keep it for himself. Wax naive. It's later in the evening, and... and he wants to kiss his brother. One more.

"I'll make it up to you." They've crossed the street, Murphy stepping up onto the curb first, looking behind. He's giving him a suspicious look. A you're-fucking-kidding-me look. Doing that thing where he bites his lip and throws Connor's mind a curve. Does that thing where he wrings his hands, his sleeves, and just _moves_ all at once.

"How's that?" He asks.

Connor strangles the grin as best he can.

"Follow me."

And he pulls him around the corner.

 _Follow me to the back of Mike's so I can press ya into one of the brick walls and grin/grind/rub into that orange fuckin' jumper._ Or it would have turned out that way. If Murphy hadn't beaten him to it. In some form. In some form of sibling rivalry that had Murphy kissing him first, head first, head long, bumping noses, changing breath. It was good. There's the short and sweet. To exaggerate, Connor's getting bold, slipping fingers between Murphy's legs now, over his belly to his thighs, and pressing lightly, curious (it killed a generation of cats). He's just there, at that point--below shifting up, hard warmth, intake of air from Murph--when the back door of the store swings open and--they're gone. Broken apart and ducked behind a crate.

Someone throws a box out and lets the door slam back closed.

Just _slightly_ caught off guard. 

Must be their day for that. 

They sit silent, just making sure, until Murphy finds something _terribly_ funny and can barely keep the grin, the smirk, the warm-red lips of his splitting into a smile. _Your face, ohhh._ He's laughing. _You looked--should have seen..._ Connor feels a little sick (hard hit of adrenaline and panic), a little hot all over and just now getting the joke because he's grinning. Rueful and laughing once, _hah_ , and then grumbling _let's get that fuckin' milk, huh_ , and yanking at Murph's shoulder. Bunching up the jumper.

"Oh yeah," Murphy breathes, "we're definitely made up now."


End file.
